


victor's game

by guksheart (jeonsflower)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - The Hunger Games, Blood, Character Death, F/M, Psychological Distress, The Hunger Games AU, Those Crazy Kids, Violence, it's a hunger games au so yes there is death but jkfgsds, mentor!seokjin, mostly tho there is a lot of fluff centering around jjk and y/n they're so goddamn in love, things get wild, tributes!tae and jimin among others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 04:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16695166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeonsflower/pseuds/guksheart
Summary: Jeon Jungkook survived the games with strength and pure luck alone, yet now lives trapped in nightmares and terror from the horrors he has seen. Suddenly forced to relive his trauma only a year later, his sole mission is to mentor a girl from his district to ensure that she makes it out alive—and that he does not suffer the consequences if he fails.





	1. the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick note to say yes! this is a hunger games au so there will be violence in future chapters!! and i do play around a little with bts' ages in this -- for example, jungkook is older than some of the members due to their specific roles within the story. thank you and pls enjoy!!

Jeon Jungkook was sentenced to die at the age of eighteen.

He is twenty years old now. His nineteenth birthday came and went during the middle of the Games the year prior, and since then, he hadn’t really felt nineteen. He hasn’t felt much of anything at all, really. Some days it is as if time had halted before lurching forward in that arena, forcing him to grow older due to the sheer force of memory.

He is at the beach of District Four on a day when the bay air is salty and fresh, wind whipping his cheeks red, when Seokjin informs him of the news.

“You know, you’re assigned to be a mentor this year for one of the tributes,” Seokjin says, casual and calm like ocean waves beneath the pale blue sky. He is not observing Jungkook at all but is instead staring off into the distant horizon. He looks vaguely reminiscent of a fashionable movie star with his wind tousled hair and gold shimmered skin. It works for him, Jungkook thinks, because he kind of has earned celebrity status now that he has successfully mentored one of the Victors of the Hunger Games.

“I know,” Jungkook wistfully replies, attempting not to sound any more emotive than he normally would. He wishes a fish from the bottom of the ocean would nibble on the line of his fishing rod to interrupt the flow of conversation before it begins.

“Think you’ll be alright as a teacher?” Seokjin adds, his charm subtracting from the situation. “I can give you some pointers, you know.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “You gave me all the help I could ever need last year, Seokjin.”

A seagull swirling overhead squawks so raucously it rattles their bones, and Jungkook jumps up, instinctively grasping for the knife strapped to his thigh. His heart rumbles in his chest, thunderous and earth shattering, and it requires the pressure of Seokjin’s gentle fingertips on his leg to coerce him into remembering that it is _just_ a seagull.

His hands do not stop trembling even as he slides them away from the weapon. When he settles back down next to Seokjin, his mentor claps him on the back and draws him closer to his body as though all the protection in the world lies in his arms rather than in the Capitol’s favor.

“Don’t worry. It gets easier with time, dealing with all this nonsense,” Seokjin reassures him kindly. _There is no danger here_ , he means to say.

The seagull flies away, innocent and free.

Jungkook hopes Seokjin is right. He really, really does.

::

A month later, the prep team plucks, waxes, and rips all the hair from Jungkook’s body until his skin shines with the redness of an overripe raspberry. They practically singe his bangs off with flat irons, smudge what appears to be charcoal on his eyelids, and nearly blind him applying a tube of mascara that makes his eyes burn.

He cannot say he has missed the team’s overbearing manner when it comes to beauty. But the cameras will be here in less than an hour, and he has to look picture perfect, Capitol ready, so they swarm around him with the intensity of the beating sun out of love. It is not often that the prep team has anyone returning to them after the arena takes them, so it should only be natural that they be excited to make him look “ _as stunningly lovely as ever!_ ” once again.

That being said, when his stylist, Jennie, spares him from his prep team’s wrath by swooping in and demanding she validate that his suit will fit him perfectly at the shoulders, he exhales a sigh of relief to be able to evade their grabby hands and overly colorful taste.

“Thank god you’re here,” Jungkook breathes out when Jennie gives him a smirk as she releases him from her hug. “Shimmer was going to put green eyeshadow on me. Like, neon _fucking_ green. She was going to turn me into a parrot, probably. I know we’re the district that has everything to do with sea life and greens and blues, but _come on_.”

Jennie laughs good naturedly.

“Glad to be of service, my friend. Although we are going to dress you in green today, but not quite like that,” she replies, beaming.

She scurries over to the trunk she lugged to Jungkook’s home in the Victor’s Village only to pull out a gorgeous forest green suit, complete with black accents etched into the Victorian design. The color reminds him of the dark lakes in his home region. His heart swells in his chest, curled up like a cat beneath a fire.

He is so touched that she even remembers the conversation they had surrounding them nearly a year ago. Jennie had asked him if he was scared to be so far away from home for the very first time, squeezing his shoulder after he didn’t eat dinner, and Jungkook felt so safe with her that he briefly mentioned how the lakes were his favorite place to go to forget about everything.

Today is Reaping Day, the day where more tributes will be pulled into the Capitol’s Games. He would be comforted to forget about a lot.

“Thank you for this,” he breathes out in unsaid acknowledgement of her gift.

Jennie smiles knowingly as she helps him slip the suit on over a black button-down. When Jungkook is fully dressed moments later, she stands proudly with her hands on her hips, admiring her work. She opens her mouth to add a comment, surely something snarky about his hair, before scouring the room for something unseen. She mouths the word cameras?, prompting him to shake his head no.

“ _Damn_ , Jungkook, you look fantastic. You look like you’re about to kick President Snow’s ass,” Jennie remarks. “Again, anyways.”

“Don’t quite think I’m in the mood for any ass kicking today. Drinking myself to death, maybe, but not ass kicking,” he deadpans, and Jennie teasingly hits him on the arm. As beautiful as the golden tattoos painted on her knuckles are, they hurt more than they should when they grind roughly against his bicep. “Ow!”

“Take my compliment, you prick!” she exclaims.

“Alright, alright, jeez! Thank you _so much_ , Jennie, I’ll definitely kick the president’s ass today if it’ll make you feel better.“

“Perfect!” Jennie cracks a grin. “You really do look great, though. It’s nice to see you’ve regained some of that muscle back after your Games. You were basically a twig when you got back…”

Jungkook winces slightly, thrusting the memory out of his head as best he can. He is unable to shove it away completely, though, and suddenly there is nothing but the image of his younger self piercing through his brain: ribcage poking through translucent skin stretched across bones, body riddled with wounds still bleeding scarlet, slick organs spilling out of his gaping abdomen from combat that occurred just moments before the cannon sounded to signal his victory—

He was more a ghost than a human being, truthfully. It took him this long for the color to seep back into his skin and for the scars to diminish until they became only faintly noticeable in the light.

“I’ve been exercising a lot, since I don’t exactly need to work now that I have all this money I don’t need,” he says with a shrug. “It’s only fair I turn back into the beefcake I once was.”

Jennie scoffs. 

“ _Beefcake_ ,” she repeats, shaking her head. “C’mon then, beefcake, we’ve gotta get you to the town square before the Reaping begins. I think you know what’ll happen to you if you’re late.”

::

A woman by the name of Blue Fargrove with hair as cobalt as her name is standing tall at the podium. The second she commences her speech, Jungkook feels all the distress he has accumulated over the past few months churning inside his stomach like snakes slithering at the bottom of a darkened pit.

“It is such an incredible honor to be in District Four to represent the Capitol in this year’s very exciting Hunger Games!” Blue is saying. Her voice has that high-pitched, Capitol lilt that sends Jungkook’s insides into a frenzy.

He stands next to other Victors from Four on stage and desperately wishes it were socially acceptable for him to grab Seokjin’s hand for comfort purposes alone. They are herded together like cattle in the corner. Finnick O’Dair is swaying a little, mildly inebriated, and Annie Cresta’s face is so green it would surprise no one if she were to vomit any time soon. They are supposed to be the most respected representatives of their country, Panem’s best and brightest would-have-been martyrs.

How far they have fallen before they had any chance to fly.

“Ladies and gentleman, I would gladly like to welcome you to the Seventy-Second Annual Hunger Games! For this year, I am certain the Gamemakers have so much more in store than you could ever imagine,” Blue chirps.

A select number of the swarming audience cheers out of delight; the majority clap their hands out of necessity. Armed guards with automatic rifles larger than their forearms create a menacing wall around the district, a fortress of threat. It is no doubt people would feel pressured to cheer.

“I know we generally start with ladies first, but as this year is sure to be a unique year indeed, shall we begin with the boys?” suggests Blue cheerily.

It is virtually an out of body experience to stand and watch, helpless, frozen, as Blue swirls her hand around in a bowl teeming with papers. Hundreds if not thousands of names were carefully written in black ink onto each one of them. Some were written once, twice, even three times. The poorest and oldest of the district had their names entered upwards of fifty times, depending on how much tesserae they would receive in compensation for increasing the odds of their name being drawn for slaughter.

Jungkook’s heart crawls into his throat as he recalls the moment from a year ago when his name had been spoken in an even tone, securing his fate. It is a miracle he is here to relive this moment once more.

Blue delicately plucks out one piece of paper and calls out the name, “Reese Irving—!“

_“I volunteer as tribute!”_

The shout erupts as a hand shoots up from the center, commanding attention when a figure moves swiftly through the crowd. A young man with ink-colored hair, a square jaw, and a likely steroid-injected physique emerges with the ferocity of a lion on the hunt.

District Four: one of three so-called “Career” districts of Panem. Meaning: a district in which people illegally train for the Hunger Games from childhood and volunteer to become either certain Victors or sacrifices. This young man seems to be one such illegal trainee, and Jungkook decides upon that fact alone that he does not like him one bit. Even if he is saving poor Reese’s life.

“Ooh, a volunteer, how exciting! What is your name, then?” Blue asks. She reaches down to help the boy up onto the stage, and he takes her hand with hesitance visible in the lines of his face.

“He looks like he could crush her with his thumb,” Seokjin whispers so only Jungkook may hear.

“River. River Henley,” the boy says proudly. He puffs out his chest a little and does his best to grin for the cameras capturing his every move, as they will for the remainder of his life regardless of the outcome of the Games.

“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!” Blue cheers, clapping her hands together in delight as she walks over to the glass bowl on the right. “And now, for the ladies!”

Her hand whirls around the papers as though attempting to feel for the best name possible to deliver another entertaining, disposable tribute. Jungkook suddenly understands Annie Cresta’s sick dilemma while listening to the paper rustling beneath her prying fingertips.

A single slip of paper determines everything, as if life is worth nothing less than that.

“Y/N L/N,” Blue calls out through the crowd.

There is an audible hush that falls over the people of District Four. The crowd, perhaps, is awaiting the chance that another volunteer may run up and offer themselves up to take the place of the girl whose name was called. His heart thumps five times, beating, beating, beating every ticking second with hope.

Yet no one comes.

A group holding the seventeen to eighteen year olds separates to allow a girl to wander through their bodies. You are wearing a cotton sea green dress and your hair falls in tangled knots around your face. Trembling just faintly, you pull yourself up onto the stage. Jungkook locks eyes with you momentarily, takes in the dark as night circles beneath them before your gaze flickers away.

He wonders to himself if you slept last night. Or if you got enough to eat this morning. Or if you simply look like a mess because of what you have just been through.

“Shake hands, please,” Blue directs you and River, cordial yet cloyingly sweet.

You screw up your face in contempt. River leers down at you when he sticks his hand out for you to shake. Whether he is sizing you up or merely relishing in the glory of the moment, it is difficult to tell, but his hand wraps entirely around yours in a display of sheer power over your small frame.

Blue places both of her hands on the tributes’ backs to pull them closer together in spite of how they will be pitted against one another from the beginning. Jungkook should know.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to the tributes of District Four!”

As the anthem of Panem rings throughout the town square, Jungkook bites the inside of his lip so ruthlessly he draws blood.

::

The train to the Capitol is as beautiful as everything is when you have too much money to spend on superfluous, frivolous items. 

Champagne and various liquors lie in an ice bath atop a fully stocked bar. Velvet couches with cushions soft as clouds adorn the room for lounging and relaxing, though hardly anyone would be doing much of that. Televisions take up entire walls while displaying reruns of the Capitol’s favorite show in such high definition you could discern individual hairs atop Caesar Flickerman’s head. A glass chandelier swings from the ceiling, clinking like bells with every high velocity turn the train takes.

Jungkook debates reaching up to graze just one of the precious jewels when the compartment door whizzes open, eliciting an electric jolt through his veins.

“Sometimes I wonder how ugly things would be if they didn’t care so much about the Victors’ opinions,” Seokjin murmurs as he enters the room. 

He has undoubtedly been searching for Jungkook since the very moment they were shoved onto the train in anxious hoards. It would be a lie to say that the sight of Seokjin standing in the doorway, broad and naturally put together, does not immediately bring forth a sense of calm in him.

Jungkook arches an incredulous eyebrow at Seokjin. _We aren’t safe here_ , he thinks. _We can’t say things like that anymore._

Seokjin lets out a huff.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up at a corner of the room where the beady red eye of a camera glares back at him.

“Have you spoken to either of them yet?” Jungkook asks, figuring it would be more worthwhile to get straight to the point rather than dance along the edges of difficult conversations none of them have the time to avoid. Seokjin, being the other mentor of District Four, certainly intends to converse about which tribute they will elect to instruct individually. Group training does not go well in the Career Districts, not when the tributes know for a fact that only one of them will make it out alive.

“Nope,” Seokjin admits. “I meant to discuss it with you first before I spoke to either of them, though I’m sure you’d rather mentor the boy than the girl. He has a fighting chance, by the looks of him. Simpler to train that way.”

“I want the girl,” Jungkook interjects.

This time, it is Seokjin’s turn to raise a brow. “What?”

“I’d rather mentor the girl,” Jungkook says, turning to his old mentor with determination setting his jaw. “She seems a bit frightened, but still a hell of a lot more humane than someone who’s likely been trying to prepare for the Games since before he could write his own name. I think I could get through to her easier.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Jungkook,” Seokjin begins delicately. “You’ve seen her. You know _exactly_ what I mean.”

“I do know exactly what you mean,” Jungkook insists. “But I think it’s worth it to try.”

“Please, Jungkook, it’s bad enough that you have to mentor for someone so soon after your games, but just… don’t get your hopes up, okay? That’s all I ask,” Seokjin urges.

Jungkook absorbs the weight of Seokjin’s steadfast expression, the softening of his eyes and the manner in which his lips part ever so faintly. His old mentor peers down at him with such unwavering sensitivity it feels as though he is navigating the rivers of Jungkook’s soul in search of some way to protect his heart.

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

For now, that is enough.

::

As much as Jungkook would like to spend ten minutes dithering outside the door of his tribute’s train compartment, he supposes there is absolutely no time to waste. Each second he spends hesitating, hands clenched to his sides instead of pressing the enter button, you are losing valuable moments that could and _should_ be spent developing different approaches that hold the potential to save your life.

Not that Jungkook has any idea how to give any advice on the matter when he won his Games based around the fact that he did not die _first_ from injuries, but still. It is this knowledge of his duty as a mentor that drives him to press the button and step inside.

You are sitting next to the window, hands curled around a cup of steaming, frothy liquid he immediately recognizes as hot chocolate. It is a delicacy only a select few from Four ever have the money to purchase. He assumes that Blue must have delivered her speech about the graciousness of the Capitol to you already and insisted that you try it on the train ride over. However, the drink appears untouched in your grasp as you stare down at the floor instead of at the flashing of bright district lights rocketing by outside.

“Hey,” Jungkook begins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Jungkook. I, uh—I’ll be your mentor this year.”

He cannot exactly pinpoint what it is that is driving his awkwardness to the very forefront of his personality today, but he kind of wants to punch himself in the face for it. His job, his duty, his moral responsibility right now is to protect you and bring forth some guidance, and he cannot even do that without a stutter. Good riddance.

Instantly, you glance up at him from your position. You are not alarmed at his presence by any means. In fact, you do not even appear to have been impacted by his intrusion at all, merely blinking like a cat whose owner arrived home five minutes too late.

“I’m Y/N,” you reply as if he didn’t know that, as if the whole _country_ didn’t know that already. “How do I live?”

Jungkook blinks.

“How do you _live_?” he repeats slowly.

“How do I survive, I mean? How do you get through everything without—you know, getting beheaded or something? What kind of strategy are we talking?” You place the mug down onto the table in front of you and gesture to a seat opposite you for him to sit. He obliges in your request, of course, but his movements are staggered from his astonishment.

He does not know what he had been anticipating from you. Anger, maybe, or crying, or panic, or bewilderment, or any of the things that people typically exhibit when they are being thrown into a death trap for no good reason. The willpower is new from someone so small you could effortlessly slip out of someone’s grasp like grains of sand sinking between their fingers.

“What are your strengths?” he asks. “Combat? Agility? Archery? Axe-wielding?”

A fleeting look crosses your face as you furrow your brow at him.

“Okay, um… well, half the game, really, is to sort of sell yourself to the audience—no, not that like that!” Jungkook hurriedly reassures you when your eyes widen to the size of the moon. “I just mean that tributes have to be charismatic and entertaining enough so the audience wants or even needs to see them win so they can claim that person as their Victor. That’s how you get sponsors, anyways, and those are integral to your survival. Are you any good at lying?”

You squint. “Why would I need to be good at lying?”

“More like… acting, not lying. You’ve got to play up an image that people will eat up like candy. Sometimes that means not being so much yourself as much as being whoever they want you to be,” Jungkook states.

“What was your image, then?” You tilt your head, edges of your lips curling in a startlingly feline fashion. “A charming, muscular boy oozing sex appeal despite his heart of gold?”

Jungkook sputters. “ _No_ , oh my God, no! I was just supposed to be, uh, cute. And strong. Or something. I don’t know, ask Seokjin—“

“The tips of your ears are turning red,” you point out, and suddenly Jungkook wants to crawl into a cave at the bottom of the ocean and never come out. His skin burns from the tips of his ears all through his cheeks. How is it that you have managed to make him feel flustered amid all this turmoil?

“Okay, I think we can figure out an image for you already,” he says, trying to steer the conversation away from his blushing.

“And what’s that?”

“Mysterious and flirtatious.”

“ _Perfect_ ,” you say, beaming brilliantly.

“That should work wonders for the sponsors in the Capitol, trust me,”  he says. “Even if you can’t think of anything physical you’re particularly excellent at doing—“

“I’m an excellent swimmer, like any decent person from District Four,” you interrupt him sternly. “I’m good with harpoons. And knives, too. Anything with a pointy end so long as all I have to do is aim and throw.”

Jungkook peers at you, the girl as little as a speck of dust in the view of the Capitol. “Somehow, I don’t doubt you at all about that,” he says.

“Good,” you say, leaning back in your seat for the first time since Jungkook’s arrival. It is as if watching the tension melt right off of your body when you settle back into a more comfortable position. “I have people to come back to. I wouldn’t want anyone to doubt me. Especially not you."

::

The Remake Center is equally as terrifying as Jungkook remembers, and all he hopes is that the tributes this year do not have to suffer nearly as much with the waxing, tattooing, and hair straightening as he did the year prior in preparation for the chariot ride. In here, the space is so large people’s voices echo off of the colosseum-like building’s marble walls. 

Citizens from the Capitol pile into the seats, chattering away as though impatiently anticipating a bloodbath. They will not have one today, but that fact does not lessen any of the fear engulfing his senses.

Jungkook waits by the chariots with the other mentors, trusting that Jennie has not dressed you or River into the same dreadful fishermen he and his fellow tribute were the year prior. The costumes themselves were supposed to attract the attention of viewers, capture their love with glittering, sensual outfits and powerful gazes. Jungkook’s tiny fishermen’s costume, showcasing all but the tops of his thighs and most intimate areas, was surely eye-catching, though he was more a hunk of ribeye thrown to the starving wolves of the Capitol than anything else.

It is in the same instance that Jungkook offers up a sugar cube to one of the chariot horses that the tributes begin to appear from the very back of the amphitheater. The tributes from District One, luxury, don sheer fuschia body suits sewn with shining rubies; the boy and girl from district two, masonry, are decked out in brutal armor that gleams in the light. You and River suddenly appear between the tributes from District 3 (naturally, the tributes from the technological district are wrapped in electrical wiring) and immediately make a beeline for the District Four carriage.

Jungkook takes a single glance at you and decides that Jennie really skimped out on him the previous year. District Four is fishing, but of _course_ Jennie would manage to think of something as enchanting as merpeople for the tributes’ grand entrance into the Capitol’s eye.

You have been transformed into a mermaid with iridescent scales the color of jade. They reflect off of a snug skirt that widens considerably at your heels, granting the impression of a flared tail. Little starfish barrettes have been strung through your hair, which is cascading loosely all the way down your back, courtesy of hair extensions. A string of pearls becomes almost a choker gripping your throat. With cheekbones highlighted in pearlescent powder and eyelids tinted gold, you resemble something ethereal and enigmatic, unreachable yet magnetic.

Jungkook is not okay.

“I think I’ve really outdone myself this year,” Jennie comments, striding confidently behind you and River. River is not wearing a dress, of course, going for the far more masculine look of form-fitting leggings painted to gleam like fish scales. He overshadows you completely with his tall form, but Jungkook has to admit that he looks impressively resilient even as a merman.

“You certainly have,” Jungkook admits. “I was quite the exquisite fisherman last year, though. Think that was your best work.”

“I’d agree with that,” you mumble grouchily, looking exceptionally uncomfortable in your costume as you pull up the cups of a seashell bra spotted with miniature conch shells.

Jennie waves you off with an eye roll.

“Come on, Y/N, you’re a magnificent mermaid! Everyone will _adore_ you—“

“—for practically selling my body on live television, sure—“

Jungkook resists the overwhelming urge to laugh. He says, in the hopes you will receive the hint, “You’ll fit in perfectly fine. Just like I said earlier, remember?”

He is not certain as to whether or not you have taken anything he has said to heart as you and River are loaded into the chariot mere moments later. The opening music suddenly blasts through the amphitheater when the colossal doors slide open and District Four trails behind District Three. He and Jennie crowd around the other mentors beneath one of the screens showcasing the ceremony, waiting to see Four’s tributes displayed on screen for the first time since this morning’s reaping.

Nostalgia arrives in curling waves the moment the camera pans over River’s smirking face. Jungkook is instantaneously reminded of this moment last year, standing atop a chariot next to a girl who is no longer here. The memory crushes him as if a brick wall is smothering his body, coaxing all the gaseous oxygen out of his lungs. He shuts his eyes for a moment of solace, blocks out everything but the raucous sound of the commentator’s awestruck shouts.

“Ah, yes, the volunteer from Four! He looks quite dashing, doesn’t he? Like a prince! And his fellow tribute, the girl—my, oh my, what a mermaid goddess she is indeed with all those shells on her! I love it, I absolutely love it!”

He opens his eyes again to find the camera capturing a close-up of your face. Instead of waving towards spectators as all the others are doing, you are staring straight ahead at one of the cameras with a smoldering, blazing expression. When you suddenly blow a kiss towards the audience, the crowd’s screams are deafening.

Relief floods Jungkook’s bones with the certainty that this whole mentoring thing, horrific and perplexing as it may be, might actually work.

When the chariots pull back in around the back, Jungkook offers up a hand to help you down after River clambers off. You accept his offer graciously and ask him, eyes wide and hopeful, “How did I do?”

“You outshone them all,” he states.

He means every word.

::

Dinner in the Training Center consists of a few things: far too much food, two bottles of sparkling wine shared by the adults in the room, and a very starving River, who inhales at least two whole chickens dripping in an orange sauce and three slices of strawberry cake. Jungkook believes he made the right choice by allowing Seokjin to mentor the boy because it seems the apple does not fall too far from the tree.

You are picking at your food as though it might bite you back despite Blue’s insistent urging to “enjoy the delicacies of the Capitol while you can!“ This may have been good-natured within itself, except it comes across more like “enjoy these desserts before you die!” instead. How wonderful.

Jungkook scoops up a chicken leg with a pair of tongs and drops it on your plate. When you shoot him a pointed look in return, he instructs, “Eat. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow when training begins.”

“Training starts tomorrow?” River pipes up through a mouth full of cake.

“Yes, tomorrow morning!” Blue trills from her position at the head of the table. She has downed most of the wine by herself, and her face is turning so red that, combined with the shadows from her blue hair, Jungkook wonders if she’ll be plum colored by tomorrow.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” River says, delighted. “I can’t wait to get my hands on one of those swords—I’ve heard Capitol weaponry is amazing compared to the dismal stuff we normally get in Four.”

“Well, you’ll want to be certain not to draw too much attention to yourself if you know what’s good for you,” Jungkook says to River. He does not mean to grit his teeth so much, yet it happens anyways. From across the table, Seokjin narrows his eyes at Jungkook as if to say, _watch what you’re telling my tribute_.

“For you specifically, it should be less about not drawing any attention to yourself and more about not flaunting the full _extent_ of your strength,” Seokjin interrupts. “You look muscular enough, you volunteered, _and_ you’re from a Career district. They know that you’re tough already, River. The idea is not to reveal the best of you until you’re in that arena.”

River gapes at Jungkook briefly. “Is that what he had you do, too? Before you won? You only scored a six during training but then you came out on top in the end…”

Jungkook dips his head down, electing to overanalyze the puffy grains of rice on his plate. With the swiftness of a storm blowing over, Seokjin saves him from having to respond.

“I helped him in what ways I saw fit, but every year and every tribute is different. Remember what we talked about earlier on the train?” he says.

River returns the statement with a nod of understanding just as you slide out from your seat, pushing your untouched plate far away from you.

“I think I’m going to bed,” you announce abruptly. You are turning away from everyone and walking into the hallway before you even have the courtesy to say goodnight. It seems so strikingly out of character for you that Jungkook’s face twists with confusion.

“Be up at seven, please, Y/N!” Blue calls as the doors slide shut behind you.

“I should go after her,” Jungkook says, although he is already standing up and muttering his apologies. He is leaving behind a plate full of food that should not be wasted even in a place that never has to worry about it, yet welling up inside of him is the insistent urge to follow you.

The hallway is darkened as he slips out of the dining room. His breath halts in his throat and he reaches his hand out on the wall, searching desperately for some kind of light switch to illuminate the corridor.

He does not do well with dark spaces anymore. Or empty spaces. Or fields. Or mountains. Or anywhere without an ending in sight. Or the Capitol in general—

A light flickers on overhead like candlelight because, as high-tech as it is here, apparently the lights cannot function properly so as to not give him a heart attack when they shut off. Jungkook takes the time to exhale for, one, two, three minutes before he makes his way to your designated bedroom with careful steps. Disturbing you with the loud noises of his footsteps after following you when you _clearly_ wanted to be alone does not seem like the best idea.

Apparently the theme for today is that Jungkook has absolutely no _fucking_ idea what he is doing because when he knocks on your door, you answer within a minute and he goes mute. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you have already twisted your hair into braids and wiped the makeup off your face, looking like some kind of angel who stepped straight out of a floaty dream while living in a walking nightmare.

Absolutely nothing to do with it. Not at all.

“Yes, Jungkook?” you ask him quietly. You seem stunned to see him at your door. Your cheeks are dusted pink and you look so timid and pretty standing there in periwinkle pajamas, face floodlit by the light coming from your bedroom. He is ashamed in himself for thinking of you in this way when there are much more dire things to be concerned with at the present moment.

“I—um, I wanted to talk to you about training tomorrow, if that’s alright with you,” he says, feeling as idiotic as he likely sounds.

He should encompass more of a resolute, stoic demeanor than he does as a mentor. He should also be asking you if you’re alright, ask you why exactly it is that you left so sporadically when you had no reason to do so. But it does not seem appropriate to pry into your feelings just yet, so he will settle for this instead.

“Oh! Yeah, definitely, of course,” you say. “What did you mean to tell me?”

“Well, obviously you overheard  Seokjin saying that River should showcase some of his talents, but not all of them,” Jungkook begins, rubbing the back of his neck.

“So I should do the same thing?” you inquire.

“You’re small enough that everyone will assume you’re weak and want to write you off as an easy target,” he explains. “Show them a little bit of what you can really do. Maybe nothing with a harpoon, but something less extreme, like being able to hit a knife on a target the vast majority of the time. If you make yourself look capable, but not overly skilled, you can potentially help yourself out before you even get there. Save the rest of your talents for the arena, just like they’ll be doing.”

“So the idea is to appear like a threat, but not so much of a threat that the other Career tributes will try and get to me first?”

“Exactly right. As long as you can do that, I think you’ll be golden.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll be a golden girl all day tomorrow, I promise,” you agree, and before you can shut the door in his face, he rushes in to add one last thought.

“And Y/N? You can, uh, order room service for yourself if you’d rather eat alone than with the rest of us, you know. Since you didn’t actually eat dinner.”

Brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face, you peer up at him curiously. Jungkook has never been particularly good at reading the expressions of strangers—or nearly anyone’s expressions, save for Seokjin’s and his family’s, truth be told. You are not distinctive from the others in that regard.

You examine him with scouring eyes that have him feeling defenseless, feeling naked with clothes on, feeling exposed and altogether vulnerable beneath them. It is as if you are attempting to comb through his intentions and his very being simply by observing him from jaw to cupid’s bow to hairline. Just like in the train compartment, the beginning of a burn arises in the tips of his ears and spreads all the way out to his cheeks.

“Thank you for letting me know,” you answer breathlessly. “I’ll definitely order something later then. Uh—goodnight, then, Jungkook. I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.”

He hopes you cannot perceive that his face is now flaming under the dim light.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replies warmly. “Good luck tomorrow.”

When you gently shut the door behind you, disappearing into the night, he thinks to himself, _This absolutely cannot be happening to me right now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all!!!! thank you so much for reading victor's game because it is my BABY and i LOVE IT and i really. need to work on getting the fourth part out tbh. i wrote this ages ago but it still holds a very special plae in my heart, even though torturing bts feels like i'm ripping out my soul.
> 
> follow me over on tumblr @guksheart for more! this is simply where i crosspost fics to ensure that others don't :')


	2. the training

As it always does, time passes with a certain flexibility that belongs exclusively to the Capitol.

The tributes from Four begin their training each morning, leaving for hours upon hours, returning only for meals before Jungkook must watch you and River disappear for training yet again. He gathers snippets of information from you whenever he can concerning the tributes from other districts in terms of what they can do, what they are showcasing, if you like them enough to be an ally or if you would prefer to steer clear of them.

“I’d rather not pair up with any of the other Careers,” you tell Jungkook one evening. It is after dinnertime and the modern, expansive space of your room has become almost as familiar to him as his own quarters. He sits on the edge of a couch cushion and scribbles notes down as quickly as you can speak them from the floor, where you are staring inattentively at your television screen.

“Why’s that?” he asks, raising a brow. According to Seokjin, River had been persistently adamant about pairing up with the tributes from One and Two. Brutal, accomplished warriors, he had called them.

“They seem like backstabbers,” you respond with a shrug. “In this situation, that’s probably a literal thing.”

Jungkook nods, writing that down next to their names in his notebook. “You should still be friendly with them regardless. Make them think you’d still be up for being allies if they come to you. You’re all Careers, whether you feel like one or not.”

“I’m not a Career like _them_ , though. I don’t want to be here for the glory of it or whatever else made them volunteer in the first place.”

“They know that too. But they’ll also associate you with River by default, and that makes you someone they will trust whether _you_ want to trust _them_ or not, so be prepared that, okay?”

The television screen pans over a scene from the Games a few years back, one where the tributes were huddled together for warmth in an arctic wasteland. The pause in conversation brims with an intangible feeling.

“Yeah,” you say, leaning your head back against Jungkook’s legs. “Yeah, I’ll prepare for that. Just in case.”

Along with this, you also tell him about the other tributes you do trust and the ones you simply cannot figure out just yet. The girl from Twelve can run faster than anyone you’ve ever seen before. Three has a set of twins, both redheads, who are absolutely vicious when it comes to archery. Your lip quivers when you mention the twelve year old from Nine, who seems helpless and lost in comparison to the fighters surrounding her. The boy from Seven with raven-black hair is just as frightening as the bird he resembles, lithe and quick with any knife he gets his hands on and slicing directly through the heart of training dummies. You seem to like him quite a bit, though you are not entirely certain what his name is just yet.

When the day that the tributes perform a skill for the Gamemakers finally arrives, Jungkook gives you the same advice he gave before you began training days prior.

“Don’t showcase the best of your talents just yet,” he says earnestly to you.

Blue attempts to usher both of the tributes out of their floor and down to the training center, but to no avail. A few feet away, Jungkook can see Seokjin whispering something in River’s ear before patting his shoulder.

“So no harpoons?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

“No harpoons, no swords,  _nothing_ that will give you an unbelievably good score that’ll have the other Careers at your throat. Stick with knife throwing. Get a few on target on the first go, but not all of them. Aim to be undetectable as a threat or as a weakling,” Jungkook says.

“Aim to be undetectable,” you repeat, then nod. “Got it. I’ll make you proud, Coach.”

Jungkook’s mouth spreads into a grin and he says, “I know you will.”

And you certainly do. Later that evening, all of Four’s mentors, tributes, and stylists gather around the couch in their living area to watch the television program with avid eyes. No one will know exactly what talents any of the tributes decided to do for the Gamemakers, as it remains secret from the public eye. All the public will know is their score between 1-12 with 12 being the highest possible achievement, and that number will aid them in placing their bets on who will win the Games in the end.

Sometimes, it is not quite so clear-cut as merely assuming the highest number indicates a winner. Jungkook won with a score of six; Seokjin became Victor with a measly four. That is part of what make the Games so interesting for the betters in the Capitol who can afford to lose money in exchange for people’s lives.

"How do you think you did, River?” Jennie inquires from the couch, glass of champagne in hand.

River shrugs, but the looseness in his shoulders contradicts the arrogance lacing his tone. “Pretty well. Got my hands on a pretty wicked looking trident and speared directly through a few dummies.”

Jungkook shoots Seokjin a look. Seokjin merely stares back, blank-faced. Jungkook doesn’t know what kind of strategy he is aiming for with River. At this rate, it appears to change every minute of every day. Maybe that is the whole point, though—making him unreadable so there is nothing to expect.

Caesar Flickerman, Panem’s resident announcer of everything having to do with the Hunger Games, has a shrill voice that cuts through the room like nails on a chalkboard. He’s voicing his sheer delight at the scores from the District One tributes. The male tribute, an unearthly young man with thick eyebrows and silver-dyed hair, has earned himself an 11, while his brunette companion yields a 9.

“Not unusual at all,” Seokjin mutters to himself. “They’ll always have high scores.”

“So will we, then,” River adds confidently.

The tributes from Two and Three have similar scores in the 8 to 11 range, none of them earning a perfect score of 12 just yet. When Caesar begins to announce the scores for District Four, Jungkook glances over to find you gnawing on your lower lip, knee bouncing up and down in pervasive anxiousness. For a brief second, he yearns to say something to calm your nerves, but Seokjin’s past voice saying _don’t get your hopes up_ persists through his emotional judgment.

 _Don’t get your hopes up._ Also known as: _don’t get emotionally invested_.

“And Miss Y/N L/N has been granted a 6. Pretty impressive for a little thing like herself, huh?” Caesar comments good-naturedly, chuckling to the other commentator sat next to him.

You release an audible breath at that, the shining 6 next to your photo standing as a brilliant reminder that you managed to do exactly as intended—a score not too high, not too low. Perfectly in the middle. Perfectly undetectable amongst the lowest of lows and highest of highs.

“Wow, nice job, Y/N! What’d you do to get that score?” Jennie asks. She appears slightly surprised by the number. “No offense, but Caesar had a point there about you being, uh… small.”

You shake your head. “None taken. I just… followed some good advice. Aimed and shot where I needed.”

“Congratulations, Y/N. You really managed to do exactly as planned,” Jungkook says, perching himself next to you. You lean into him, almost unconsciously, and throw him a cheeky smile.

“I’m trusting you with my life, Jungkook. I’ve gotta be the golden girl you tell me to be,” you say. Your tone is almost mischievous, yet he can detect the faintest beginnings of a blush beginning in the apples of your cheeks.

He cannot help but think that the Capitol will be completely enamored with your modesty, your likability, your underdog persona—and yet, he also cannot help but be worried about whether or not that will turn out to be a good thing.

::

Jungkook is not sure what it is about being in the Capitol again, but sleep evades him night after night. He feels on edge, feels out of control, feels as though he is hurtling towards the uncertain death that plagued him a year ago. His eyelids refuse to shut as he lies awake in bed with legs tangled up in blankets and a brain that will not stop running in every wild direction.

There is a point, hours after midnight, that he gives up, finally hauling his fatigued limbs out of bed and trudging toward the window of his room. The Capitol lights are intense and blinding as the city teems with unbridled life below. He can hear people shouting aggressively as they amble out of bars, and the inside of his mouth tastes like metal.

It reminds him of the arena. Being here in this small room, listening to the sound of screaming, with no feasible exit except to jump straight through a window, surrounded by people who will never feel much like home.

He turns his back on the window and decides he is going to spend the night in the temporary safety of Seokjin’s bedroom instead.

::

The sky at dawn is the color of peonies, and Jungkook finds you on the rooftop of the training complex with your legs dangling dangerously off the edge. Part of him is desperate to scold you for doing something so perilous, yet you understand just as well as he does that the Gamemakers have taken special precaution using an electrified field to be certain none of the tributes would fall off or, even more likely, jump themselves.

“Hey,” Jungkook says softly as he approaches, hoping not to startle you but failing as you jump up from your seated position.

“Oh, Jungkook! I’m sorry,” you apologize profusely as you stand up. “I’m just a bit jumpy today, that’s all.”

He can certainly understand. Being here, forced to train with people who will shortly be in a race for to steal away your heartbeat—it does something wicked to you even when you should feel sheltered.

“Nervous for the interview tonight?” he asks, choosing to stay on a path of clearer waters.

You snort. “Of course not. It’s only the most important aspect of the Games, according to you and everybody else in this damn place.”

Jungkook’s expression softens.

“It is,” he agrees, “but I can assure you that you’ll do fine. Play up those angles we talked about and they’ll be putty in your hands.”

“Just because you managed to be the nation’s precious golden boy doesn’t mean I’m going to be able to earn their love just as easily, Jungkook.”

“I didn’t say you had to be anything like me.”

“Jungkook. You’re, like, _literally_ everything anyone could ever want to see in another human being,” you counter.

When Jungkook opens his mouth to argue, you raise a hand in front of his mouth and continue speaking regardless.

“You’re tall, intelligent, thoughtful, compassionate, and, despite all that, ridiculously fucking muscular and lethal with any weapon you ever got your hands on in that arena. You survived because you’re good at this thing and because you were strong enough to endure more than anyone else, even after getting _stabbed_.”

Momentarily, Jungkook sputters, mind whirling with the recollection of his final days in the Games. He and the other boy he had been pitted against in the finale, Atlas, had been engaged in combat for nearly an hour before they had managed to pierce through the other’s flesh. His intestines were spilling out of him and Atlas was coughing up blood on the grass before he finally fell over dead, leaving Jungkook with only a few minutes to be whisked back into the Capitol medical team’s arms before he would suffer the same disastrous end.

“It has more to do with luck than anything, I think,” he contends. “I was lucky I survived the bloodbath at the Cornucopia without too many injuries, lucky I had sponsors giving me fresh water when I was dying of thirst, lucky that my opponent—that _Atlas_ had died before I did. It’s not fair to anybody and no one has better chances than anyone else, but it can always help to try and play up some angle to get those sponsors, and damn it, Y/N, you’re going to be fine.”

A gravid pause passes between the two of you, and all the while, Jungkook can feel an uninhibited _something_ stirring in his bloodstream. He is not certain if it is rage at the past or desperation for you to do well or simply the persistent hope you will understand that you are going to make it through this, no matter what part of you insists that you will fail like all the rest.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe out, not looking him in the eye but instead gazing at the cracked white cement beneath your feet. “For bringing it up.”

“What d’you mean?” he asks, puzzled.

“Your time in the arena.” Now, you’re biting your lip again, something that surely must be an engrained nervous habit. “I’m sure it’s not something you like to think about very much. _God_ , that was so insensitive to do when it’s such a painful subject. I’m so sorry, I really, really shouldn’t have said anything.”

Dawn rises behind you, turning the pink sky sunflower yellow, and all he can think to himself is that you should not have to be sorry when going through a tragedy. He wishes he had been bold enough to talk about Seokjin’s time in the arena last year, to bring up the sensitive topics when he was so enraged that someone else would be able to survive when he likely would be taken by the Games. You are going through a fucking _catastrophe_ , for God’s sake, and he has not lost his empathy just yet.

The uninhibited something tugs ruthlessly at his insides and drives him, somehow, to pull you into a short yet close embrace.

“It’s okay,” he says honestly, releasing you from his hold. “It’s more than okay to be angry and unsure with this whole thing. I know you didn’t mean to upset me or anything, Y/N. You’ve got a brilliant heart.”

“This wasn’t supposed to turn into you comforting me, you know,” you reprimand, but the barest hints of light have returned to your eyes. “You’re too good for the Capitol, Jungkook. You really are.”

And there returns that fuzzy, flustered sensation that burns his cheeks and leaves his brain melted into an increasingly large puddle of embarrassment.

“It wasn’t me being nice to you for the sake of being nice. I’ve just gotta keep you in good spirits for the interview later,” he replies.

Afterwards, when Blue pulls you and River into the elevator to take you down to the stylists, he is more than certain that you knew he was lying through his teeth.

::

Really, Jungkook should have anticipated that you would be cat-called and whistled at the very moment you walked onstage, but that does not deter the green-eyed monster in his chest from waking up with a start. He convinces himself that it is merely protectiveness over his tribute, a natural instinct to be sure that everyone is secure from the prying eyes of manipulative Capitol men, yet deep down, he indubitably recognizes his own bullshit.

For the past twenty minutes, Jungkook, Seokjin, and Four’s stylist prep team have been sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the overflowing audience, observing the other tributes take the stage for their interviews with Caesar. As much as he would enjoy only having to analyze his own tribute’s performance on stage, this is the first and last time any of them will be able to see the other tributes’ personalities before the Games begin tomorrow morning.

They are going to be playing up intricate angles, making themselves appear interesting, strong, and desirable for the sponsors, sure. But these tributes are the same kids who you will be fighting to death in the arena, and it is imperative that Jungkook knows their moves just as much as your own.

The first contestant, a girl from One named Rose, is all cutesy appeal with her soprano voice and frilly lace dress. Jungkook can tell she is hiding something with the sly grin she gives the cameras at the end of her interview, but there is still no way to tell exactly what she has hidden up her sleeve. The boy from District One is stoic and elusive with his smooth voice and thick eyebrows, even with a unique name like Taehyung that distinguishes him from everyone else.

Both tributes from Two, Laurel and Madden, attempt to be as charming as possible by talking about their families at home while also showcasing their strength as competitors with their toned, muscular arms on full display. The red-haired twins from Three combine their interview into one, drawing tears from emotional spectators as they whimper on about how deeply they dread going into the arena together.

“Y/N’s up next,” Seokjin whispers to Jungkook as the twins bounce off the stage hand-in-hand.

A distinct murmur runs through the crowd, and then their whispers gradually heighten into a cacophony of cheers and rambunctious whistles when you waltz up to Caesar.

“What the hell—!” Jungkook starts, but his own voice is swiftly drowned out by the clapping of enthusiastic audience members.

“Christ,” Seokjin breathes. “Jennie really went all the way with the sexy look for Y/N, didn’t she? Doesn’t she know your tribute’s only 18 years old?”

Seokjin certainly has a point, Jungkook thinks, with the provocative outfit your stylist has chosen for you. It consists of a sloping jade dress with cut-outs revealing the sides of your stomach, two slits in the skirt running tauntingly all the way up to the tops of your rounded thighs. A golden necklace bearing emeralds drapes over part of your exposed chest, set off by matching earrings dangling from your earlobes. Your skin shines with shimmering gold dust that flashes in the light. Charcoal lines your eyes, casting you in a sleek, arcane aura.

The ensemble emits allure, extravagance, and wealth. Jungkook is far more than stunned by your radiance, to say the very least.

“My, my, my, Miss Y/N from District Four! How spectacularly lovely do you look tonight!” Caesar booms, a Cheshire grin curling his lips as he gracefully takes your hand. You stand brightly with your other hand on your hip when he kisses it.

“Oh, Caesar, you flatter me far too much!” you say, but you throw the audience a wink that causes a few more hollers and whistles from far too many grown men. Jungkook attempts to shove down the white-hot frustration boiling over in his stomach by clenching a fist.

“My dear, first it was a mermaid gown, and now it’s this… You are coming right for everyone’s hearts, aren’t you?” Caesar asks. He turns to the audience, waving his hands up for a response, and they answer with an uproar.

“I won’t reveal any of my secrets right about now, but… perhaps,” you brazenly answer, still looking over your shoulder at the crowd.

“So, Y/N, tell me what exactly you think is going to be in store for you in the Games this year!” Caesar exclaims, gesturing for you to sit down on the couch.

When you do, you cross your legs over one another, lady-like. Jungkook thinks, _Jennie must have taught her that. She is always sitting cross-legged, even on couches._

“Well, lots of trying to find fresh water, lots of trying to figure out what might poison me, lots of escaping certain death… you know, the usual things,” you say with a shrug.

That earns a laugh from the audience for something not very funny at all.

“Oh, goodness, you are a _riot!_ ” Caesar comments. “But it’s not certain death, though, is it? You managed to get a score of 6 with the Gamemakers, the very same as your mentor before you!”

Something shines in your eyes at that. 

“Yeah, Jungkook did get a six, too. But I’m definitely not him,” you reply, looking out into the ocean of people as though searching for his presence. “I’m not really sure if my chances are quite as high as his were when he entered the Games. But I’ll certainly try my best.”

“Is there anyone in particular back home that you are trying to win for, then?”

“My family.” When you speak, your posture straightens, gazing into the cameras with a faraway look. “Back home in Four, I have a younger brother, a mom, and a dad. We live together in this tiny complex in a fishing village right by the beach. It might seem like a small number of people to some, but they’ve been my whole world forever. It will always be that way to me. I don’t want to disappoint them or leave them behind, not when they have so much else to lose already, you know?”

Then, everything is so silent Jungkook can hear his own heartbeat.

“So no significant other to look forward to seeing again, then?” Caesar teases to break through the stillness, and the faraway look is instantaneously replaced with the same enticing guise you walked on stage with.

“Nope,” you admit. “But if I make it through this thing, I’ll certainly be up for any takers.”

A buzzer sounds, and the interview concludes with you blowing kisses to the audience as Caesar shouts, “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Y/N of District Four!”

“She’s good,” Seokjin says, shaking his head in admiration. ” _Really_ good.“

“Fucking tell me about it,” Jungkook mutters.

You are glowing like a star, basking in the glory of the Capitol’s attention up on that stage. Jungkook believes you have a smile made for war. With the war that is the Hunger Games looming closer second by second like dark clouds hanging overhead, that is an incredible thing indeed.

::

It is sometime past midnight on the day of The Hunger Games when someone slips into Jungkook’s bedroom, startling him out of his anxiety-ridden sleep. His breathing is so ragged as to border on hyperventilation as he reaches out, panic-stricken, for the knife he keeps on his bedside table before the lights flood inside his bedroom. A soft voice begins to speak.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me.”

You pad slightly further into the room. Jungkook bolts right up, gripping the edges of his mattress. He isn’t wearing a shirt and thus feels a compulsion to conceal himself with his sheets, but he can see your shoulders shaking and suddenly that does not matter one bit.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

It is a stupid question, of course, because anyone would be able to tell that you are absolutely _not_ okay, not at all. Lower lip trembling, you exhale an unsteady breath.

“I can’t sleep,” you manage to gasp out.

“Neither can I,” Jungkook says, brow furrowed with worry.

“It’s one of those nights, yeah?” you say. “I’m really sorry for interrupting, though—”

“’Course it is, but I don’t mind the interruption. Why are you here, though? That’s not me being judgmental, by the way. Just curious.”

“I know it’s dumb,” you start to say, “but I just didn’t think of anyone else I could talk to? Figured you might care more than anyone else, I suppose.”

 _Of course I care_ , he thinks.

“Y/N, you can tell me anything on your mind and I promise you I will listen,” he replies quietly. A shudder runs up your spine from either the cool night air or whatever it is that is sprinting like wildfire through your tortured mind.

“It’s just,” you say, voice breaking in hopeless despondency. “I could be dead in a few hours, Jungkook. People are going to be aiming for my head, for my heart, and they’re going to try and _kill_ me. Other kids, even the ones who are way too young for this, and only one of us is going to live in the end. And I—I don’t want to leave my family behind, I don’t want to _die_ , God.”

Tears track down your now reddened, blotchy cheeks. You are quivering all over with emotion, losing more and more of your breath as you speak. The scene ruptures an overfilled dam inside of Jungkook. He finds that all the compassion stored within him erupts at once, a lump crawling up the back of his throat as he watches you cover the lower half of your face in shame. Pushing the tears down, he reaches out towards you.

“Come here,” he says softly. “Let me help you.”

At that, you amble straight into his arms like a lost child returning home, and he wraps you into the security of his embrace, holding onto you as snugly as he can. He strokes soft circles around the gentle curve of your spine and you press yourself flush against his shoulders, burying your face entirely in the crook of his neck. Sobs choke out of you every few seconds. He cannot blame you for them one bit, no matter how much they break his heart.

When dawn arises, you will wake up and be taken to the arena by hovercraft. In the Launch Room, Jennie will dress you in the clothes you will wear until your fate is sealed for better or for worse. As confident as he may be that you have a fighting chance at winning this thing, he cannot guarantee you that you will survive. Or that you will have a future at all.

“It’ll be okay,” Jungkook whispers into your hair, even though it is a lie and you both know it. “You are going to get through this, and I am going to get you sponsors, and you are not going to die. I’ll make sure of it.”

“But what if I do die?” you ask, hurried, frantic. “What happens to my brother? What happens to everyone else, all the kids that are going to be in my place, year after year? It isn’t fair. It isn’t fucking fair. How can they do this to us, I don’t get it.“

“I’ll take care of your family and everyone else that comes after you,” he reassures you. He longs to say, _I’ll find a way to get back at President Snow_ , to say, _Someone will start a revolution in your honor_ , and to say, _We will end these Games for good_. But he cannot do that. Not with the technology in here recording his every word.

“I can’t do this.” Your voice breaks as you face him again with swollen, bloodshot eyes. More than anything, you look wildly desperate for an escape.

“No one can. No one should,” he agrees. “But I will believe in you enough for the both of us, okay? I’ve got you. I promise you, I do, and when you make it out of there alive, I will be the first one here welcoming you back.”

Jungkook realizes, then, how close you are sitting to him right now. He can see tears clinging to each one of your eyelashes, your blown out pupils, your puffy eyelids. Your lips are mere centimeters away from his own, and he wants to kiss you, suck your lower lip into his mouth and taste you, because you might die tomorrow and he might never have the chance to do this again. Ever.

The chance is there, but he does not take it.

“Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “This whole time, you’ve been nothing but comforting to me and I’m so, so sorry that I’m such a mess. It can’t help mentoring someone who’s a wreck.”

He brushes a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, cupping your jaw in his hands. “You have every damn right to be a wreck right now,” he insists.

“Might as well leave the planet like the wreck I always was while I was living, huh?” you choke out.

And like that, the sobbing commences once again, and you are practically crawling into his lap and he is letting you because how could he not? How could he do anything but hold you until your breathing evens, until your galaxy of thoughts dwindle into atoms, until your eyes shut to allow you the solace of rest?

After minutes that feel like seconds, your body collapses onto the bed next to his own. Each of your forms press against one another for warmth and protection as though, maybe, you could remain there forever and evade what is to come in the comfort of his bedsheets. Even when you finally doze off into blissful sleep, he keeps an arm snug around you, nestling you into him like a shelter in the storm.

::

Daylight has never felt so cold before.

All remnants of last night’s events were wiped clean, becoming an unspoken memory between you and Jungkook as soon as you awoke. Now, you stand before him in the illuminated corridor to say your goodbyes before you are swept away from the easy luxuries of Capitol living.

He hates this. He hates this so much more than he thought he would.

“This is goodbye,” you say. It is with a gentle regard that you peer up at him. If there is any fear stirring within you right now, you are careful not to express it so perceptibly.

“So it is,” Jungkook echoes. “Good luck in the arena.”

“Any last words of advice for your dear little tribute?” you ask hopefully.

He ponders this for a moment, taking in your small frame and the strength you so obviously exude despite it.

“Stay away from the Cornucopia. Make allies if they offer themselves up to you. Find fresh water and don’t eat anything if you’ve got no idea what it is. I’ll get you all the sponsors you need in your time of trouble,“ he says.

“Thank you,” you reply, honest. “For everything.”

Sunlight from the window creates a halo of vivid light around the top of your head. Jungkook repels the impulse to kiss you again just as you do something which you have never done before by reaching up on your tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

“Don’t you dare forget about me,” you insist when he stares back at you, dazed.

“I would never even dream of it.”

::

Seokjin is practically attached to Jungkook’s hip in the Games Headquarters. Perhaps he senses something is suspiciously off with Jungkook, or perhaps Jungkook has become as much of a crutch for him as the reverse. Whatever the reason, Jungkook is unfathomably grateful for the comfort.

The mentors of every other tribute surround them in a lounge. For the very first day of the Games, they need not worry over obtaining sponsors just yet. Today is about watching for the survivors of the initial bloodbath and strategizing about the mysteries of this year’s specialized arena.

In the far left corner, Johanna Mason stands, armed and dangerous, dutifully watching the television set with fire in her eyes. Brutus, a Victor from Two, speaks in hushed tones to his sister, Enobaria, whose spiked teeth glint viciously even from across the room. Chaff sips on a cup of what must presumably be coffee, his worry apparent in the creased lines of his old face.

Jungkook feels awful for him. According to River, his tributes did not seem to do nearly as well in training as the majority of the others, and that can really spell out trouble in the long run.

“How did it go this morning? With saying goodbye to Y/N?” Seokjin asks cautiously, tearing Jungkook’s attention away from their fellow Victors.

“Better than anticipated,” he lies. If Seokjin detects his deceit, he does not show it. “How did it go with River, then?”

“Fine, surprisingly enough. The kid’s gonna go far in the Games, I can tell,” he comments. “Maybe not as far as you did, but one can always hope.”

“I thought you said not to get your hopes up about your tributes?”

“Not over lost causes,” Seokjin explains. “But if someone seems to stand a fighting chance, then of course you can dream.”

Jungkook presses his lips together and chooses not to comment any further, electing instead to face the screen. A countdown pops up, counting backwards from 10 while the anthem of Panem thunders from the speakers. Each mentor in the room holds their breath. He thinks he might vomit as Claudius Templesmith’s brash voice begins to rumble throughout the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-Second Annual Hunger Games begin!”

The cameras cut to the arena immediately. Jungkook’s jaw drops when he sees it.

“A lake,” he hears Johanna say, completely in awe. “They’re standing in a _lake._ ”

The tributes are dressed in skin tight suits with thermal jackets pulled over them, looking as terrified as one would expect. They stand on top of their launchpads with nothing adjacent to them apart from water that stretches endlessly towards a sandy beach. Fins of unknown sea creatures pop out of the lake in various intervals, threatening and unusual.

Every face shown on screen is just as terrified as one might expect. By the time you receive your close-up, you are still panting with fear yet swerving your head around you in search of something unseen. Jungkook wills all of the strength in his body to you.

Whispers resonate between all of the mentors as the arena is displayed in its entirety. To one corner, a blistering red desert. To another, a maze of tall fields. In the north, a vibrantly colored rain forest. Different terrains, all with different challenges to pull the tributes together when the environment they reside in runs out of necessary supplies.

It looks hazardous. As if the arena itself is designed for slaughter rather than merely having the tributes murder one another.

The cannon blasts, and you immediately dive into the water, heading straight in the same direction as the deadly Cornucopia.

_This is not what you had planned._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter pains me more than words can say tbh dkfjlsds i remember when i was writing it, i pretty much just screamed at myself. BUT HEY AT LEAST THERE'S FLUFF, RIGHT?
> 
> follow me over @guksheart on tumblr for more!


	3. the arena

You are an idiot.

That is all you manage to think with a heart thundering against the bones of your ribcage. Your sight is dead-set on a trident, glittering and lethal, at the heart of the Cornucopia. It is a reckless, adrenaline-fueled decision that launches you right into the water in its direction and its accompanying bloodbath, where chances of survival are slim to none. That trident could save your damn life later in the Games.

But you are an idiot spitting up saltwater that could be poisoned, feeling the slippery, slick seaweed tangling up your legs as you haphazardly kick yourself towards land, disregarding every rule you had worked out with your mentor.

Well. If you are going to die, you might as well die with a fucking bang, right?

You are the first one to arrive at the Cornucopia, hauling your body, weighed down by water clinging to your wetsuit, onto the asphalt floor beneath it. Blinding sunlight sheens its metal exterior and highlights the decadent array of deadly weapons and backpacks sitting in a colossal tower inside. Harpoons, knives, swords, maces, axes, poison darts—the Gamemakers surely did not skimp out on the tributes this year.

Everyone has a fair shot of existence with this, you think.

“You’d better get a move on, Four!” someone suddenly shouts from behind.

You whip your head around at the familiar sound of River’s voice. He has clambered into the Cornucopia like some kind of robust ocean god, positively dripping from his dive yet utterly focused here with a jaw set in determination. He snatches a harpoon and the largest backpack instantly, swinging the backpack around his shoulders. The harpoon is clutched tightly around his fingers. He does not direct the weapon at you, but instead out at the ocean of heads bobbing dangerously close in the water towards you.

“You’re Four, too, don’t you remember?” you hiss at him.

“Not in here, I’m not,” he remarks viciously, and your muscles tense into tightly wound coils. Whatever game River is attempting to play by sparing you while you are vulnerable up here, it is not fooling you. He knows as well as you do that the “bond” you once shared by being from the same district is broken by the violent, life or death circumstances of the arena. This is for show, as everything is here.

You peer out into the distance, limbs feeling like static electricity. Four is the district of swimmers, and nearly every other tribute is clearly struggling in the water, having never experienced such deep lengths before. Someone small and blonde—the twelve year old from Nine, you think—is practically already here, inching closer by the second.

Two options present themselves: stick with River and a false alliance for a little while, or sprint away as fast as you can into the rainforest in the north.

“Sticking around for the Bloodbath?” River quips, watching carefully as you forcefully seize the looming trident out of its placeholder. His gaze tears between you and the boy hurtling with all his might towards the Cornucopia. He stiffens his grip on the harpoon clutched in his fist.

You snort, slinging a dark green backpack up onto your shoulders as well. “I don’t think it’s quite my place anymore,” you remark.

As expected, the young boy from Nine is now dragging himself up onto land, his breaths coming out in terrible, jagged heaves as if he has to nearly vomit the air out of his lungs. His little body is shivering from the icy water, from the anxieties no doubt wracking through him, from the weight of fighting so much simply to make it back onto even ground.

Silence passes for a moment when the boy looks up as though noticing, for the very first time, that there are other people here at the Cornucopia. His large eyes widen, mouth parting into an _o_.

“Was it ever yours to begin with?” River asks you softly, locking eyes with you at once. His harpoon points away from your body as it has since the very beginning.

And then he hurls it directly through the little boy’s heart.

It cuts right through him, gutting him like a doe, and his thin, wavering body tumbles backwards with his dead weight. Blood spills out of his chest, the color of cherry wine, pouring forth endlessly as a reminder as to why this part is called the bloodbath of the Hunger Games.

“Probably not, no,” you reply quietly, the words coming out choked and awful. Strong, mysterious persona be damned.

River yanks the harpoon out of the dead boy’s body with calculated finesse.  “Like I said earlier, Y/N,” he says, eyes flashing, “you should get a move on.”

He stands poised and prepared with his bloodied harpoon at the ready. This is his territory. The territory of the other Careers whose hands are ready to draw life out of bodies to further their own survival. Half paralyzed with fear and half buzzing with adrenaline, you nod your head ever so slightly as to have the movement be almost imperceptible.

With a single glance at River’s immense, authoritative frame, you slip out of the Cornucopia like the coward you never intended to be and sprint straight for the looming rainforest.

::

Jungkook is gripping the edge of his seat so hard he fears he may split the fabric apart due to the sheer force of his fingernails alone. He cannot breathe. He cannot think. He cannot do much apart from lie there, useless, gaping like a fish aching to be returned to water, hoping that your face will pop up on the television screen as a signal that you are okay.

He figures you must be. They have not shown your face since you fled from the Cornucopia unharmed, and with such an intense Bloodbath occurring today, surely your death would have been blasted on screen alongside the others. Next to him, Seokjin tenses at the gruesome sight of a dark haired girl from Seven has her throat slit by the deadly boy from One, lying in an abysmal pool of her own blood only seconds afterwards.

“God _damn_ it,” Jungkook hears Johanna Mason curse. She slumps back from her position in front of the television. “I really thought she might make it further than that.”

“I’d apologize for my tribute’s behavior, but I’m not sure who he’s targeting apart from, well, _everyone_ ,” Brutus cackles. It is a hollow laugh coming up from his throat. Like even he as a Victor and a mentor understands that, really, they have no control over the events that will transpire over the coming weeks.

The cameras cut from one kill to the next. So far, the Career Pack (apart from you) have slaughtered nearly half the tributes, turning the murky water surrounding the Cornucopia even darker and allowing dead tributes’ bloated bodies to float to shore. For an audience, such things must be particularly invigorating as an alliance is made and the weaker links are picked off. As a mentor, all Jungkook can focus on is somehow being certain that your life will endure throughout all of this carnage.

“You don’t have to worry so much right now,” Seokjin murmurs suddenly. He places a hand atop of Jungkook’s own, placating him until he can pry his fingers from the cushion beneath them. “She’s fine.”

“Right now, maybe. We have no idea where she even is,” Jungkook mumbles, but he is grateful for the support regardless. After River’s interaction with you earlier, he does not know where he and Seokjin should stand in terms of supporting the other’s tribute.

“If we did know she is, that’d make us Gamemakers.”

“I wish we were. Then we could rig these for fan favorites like they always did to the rest of us,” Jungkook says vacantly.

Seokjin narrows his eyes.

“Careful,” he says. “We have company.”

The aforementioned company being cameras, obviously, as well as being everyone else in the room that come from varying levels of loyalty to the Capitol and the president. Every Victor would understand what Seokjin means, though, and the Capitol should know by now that the Victors understand more than anyone else in the nation about political scheming.

Jungkook huffs, turning his attention back to the Games once more. It seems the bloodbath has died down enough to leave the Careers all cleaning their weapons and pillaging the Cornucopia for any remaining weaponry they can use to their advantage. Taehyung, the boy from One, has a peculiarly confident glint in his eye when he waves to one of the cameras in the Cornucopia, flashing a million watt smile.

It is things like that, like smiling up cameras and waving like a teenager come to sudden fame, that stir up queasiness in the pit of Jungkook’s stomach. The boy smiles as though he did not just stab people to death. He smiles as though he is not planning on doing it again. Taehyung and River and you and everyone else… all of you are just _kids_.

 _Everything about this is so sick_ , Jungkook wants to say to Seokjin, wants to scream it until his lungs are on fire, wants to cradle the words in his soul. He wants to tear his heart out of the crevice in his chest and crawl through the screen so that none of you will have to go through these Games the same way he did.

But he cannot do that. So he keeps his mouth sealed tightly shut and observes the way Taehyung pockets a knife with the casualty of a Capitol citizen stowing away a cellphone.

::

The rainforest is, by all accounts, the furthest thing from what you are accustomed to seeing back in District Four.

At home, everything is open sky and sandy beaches. Sunsets turn horizon lines rosy, violets blending together with burnt oranges at dawn. The air is as crisp and light as an apple even though it reeks of rotting fish. You come home with sea salt clinging to your damp skin and broken shells between your toes, sure, but at least the view is beautiful. Memorable, even.

But the rainforest feels like a dark cloud capturing you in a chokehold. Oxygen is scarce as the thick, damp air clogs your throat so that you are hardly able to inhale at all. Dark foliage hoards around you until your vision practically blurs. One tall tree is hardly distinguishable from any of those around it, yet you continue sprinting in search of _something_ that may help you.

Fresh water. Some berries, preferably non-poisonous. An animal, preferably non-venomous.

There is nothing, though. Nothing but endless trees pressing in so fiercely that you cannot even see how high they reach above your head or how far wide they stretch outwards.

You have been running through here for what feels like hours. Days. Limbs burning like embers, you are not sure how much more pain your body can take before your legs may fall off. Dehydration on the very first day of the Games seems like a terrible idea, so you stall in front of a particularly huge tree to allow yourself a break.

The backpack slides from your shoulders, landing in the dirt with a dull thud while you attempt to catch your breath. Its sound ricochets off the rain forest and your blood freezes you in place, momentarily thinking the noise may give away your location before you remember that, most likely, very few others would have come in this direction after the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.

Your encounter with River seems as if it occurred more than a mere few hours ago by now. Even in during training, he was always a bit more bloodthirsty than many of the others with his insistence on training with weaponry only. But killing someone, especially a child, right in front of you before sparing your life? That is all different kinds of maniacal.

The memory flashes like a lightning strike in your mind: the boy from Nine, falling to the ground in a heap, a harpoon lodged all the way through his chest and bursting through his back. River’s face, cold and unfeeling, the way in which he positioned himself like a guard meant to fend off anyone from stealing what he felt belonged to him and him alone. Every move he had made then was so deliberate and premeditated. He is certainly a Career bred for the Games, through and through.

He terrifies you more than anyone else at this point.

But for right now, you are safe from your tormentors, obscured beneath a thousand protective trees that conceal you in their shade.

You look straight up into the darkness and mouth, to whoever might be listening, _thank God_.

::

Jungkook does not remember his Games very fondly.

No one ever does, he supposes. No matter what year you go, there is always bad luck and agony and starvation and stabbings and hurt and homesickness and fear. Always fear rotting through the very best of people and forcing them to enact countless diabolical, vile things in order to continue on with their dreaded existence.

The deal is that afterwards, when you win, that is it. There is no more fear of being drafted into the Games yourself. No more hunger for you for the rest of your life. No more having to think about it.

Except that the Capitol controls your life with their post-interviews, their celebrity media, and their annual Games, forcing you to become a mentor and to do their bidding or suffer the consequences.

Seokjin knows this more than anyone. This is why Jungkook is his only family now, and why they both do whatever they can to forget.

“D’you want a drink?” Seokjin asks the very moment the anthem of Panem blares.

“They’re about to show us everyone who’s gone, though—?“

Seokjin sighs. “That’s exactly why I’m asking if you want a drink. I’m getting whiskey sours from the bar.”

In another life, Jungkook might have laughed. “No thanks. I’ll just stay and watch. See who’s still left and all that.”

Seokjin puts a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder and squeezes. He wants to lean into the touch, instinctively yearning for hugs and tactile comfort in times of trial, but that would be inappropriate in their current company. Even given how many mentors have left the room in favor of the bar after their tributes have been murdered, the remaining Victors would perceive the two of them as weak for being so open about a desire for consolation.

The Hunger Games teach you to keep a lot of things about yourself hidden, it seems.

When Seokjin leaves the room, Jungkook leans forward to watch as portraits of tributes that have passed on light up the darkened arena sky.

The very first to go is one of the twins from District Three, signaling that none of the Careers have died on the very first day. Then, the girl from Five, the boy from Six, the girl from Seven, both from Eight. Jungkook’s fist clenches when he sees the boy from Nine, the twelve-year old whose heart was ripped out far too young. Along with him is the girl from his District, the girl from Eleven, and both from Twelve.

Each of their faces pass and go, a tiny blink of existence, no name painted beneath them even at their end. In death, they are martyrs, symbols for the Capitol to use as bait to keep the districts at bay.

Eleven dead in the first day at nightfall. Nearly half the tributes they began with have already had their bodies destroyed by the hands of other kids. Jungkook is so _livid_ with grief that he does not know how he could sit here any longer without ripping apart everything in the room from the expensive velvet couch cushions to the luxurious carpeting to the ludicrously styled hair on his head.

“Fuck,” he says to himself, the anthem of Panem fading into oblivion.

A gentle murmuring runs through the room, rippling through the crowd of other mentors. The urge to somehow disappear and simultaneously burst into flames overwhelms him. How has Seokjin survived doing this before? How have none of them ever completely lost it, or have they all merely desensitized themselves to the sensation of losing people after so much overexposure to it?

He does not want to ever be that person who sits by and takes it. The person who goes up to drink themselves into a stupor to forget their past and subsequently fail to empathize with others. The person who cares more about their tribute winning than a family’s child unfairly dying.

Seokjin meanders back into the lounge, a short glass of amber liquid in hand, just as the cameras pan over the Career pack squabbling over a handful of berries. He smells less like the sea salt of District Four and far more like alcohol.

“How many in total?” he asks, almost as though he were asking about the score of a sporting event.

“Eleven.”

“Really? Damn.” Seokjin takes a long sip of his drink. “That’s… that’s so many more than usual. Although I do have a feeling this bunch is going to be a lot different than usual in a lot of other ways, too.”

“Me too,” Jungkook agrees with a nod. On screen, River pushes one of the other Careers out of the way to grab at the ruby-red berries in her hand. “When exactly do we get to try to grapple at sponsors, by the way? Y/N’s gonna need all the help she can get.”

::

While the day in the rain forest is clammy and tropical beyond belief, the night is as freezing as the arctic tundra.

The Gamemakers must have wanted a quick killing spree when they designed this year’s arena, you think, because they cannot seem to stick with only one terrain or only one kind of weather. They provided four different environments and each contained their own unique weather systems. Even the humidity of the rainforest cannot be guaranteed to you.

No wonder they provided you all with such a heavy overcoat over the thin wetsuits. They do not want too many of you freezing to death when you could have such honorable ends as being eviscerated by one of your fellow peers for the entire nation to see and play in reruns for the rest of time.

While you can hardly make out the sun setting with how little light filters between the rainforest’s leaves, you know it must be close to nightfall. They always play the anthem and show the day’s fallen tributes at sundown, and that happened a few minutes prior while you were searching for fresh water. Even with a mouth parched from dehydration after a day of running wildly around for safety, you need to rest.

Unlike what you had been hoping for, there appear to be no hidden shelters nestled within the rainforest. Only magnificently enormous trees sprout up in all directions instead of tents or caves. You do not believe anyone has followed you here, and if you do not rest soon, your chances of being in your best health later on will dramatically lessen. Tomorrow, you will look through your backpack and walk for miles until you either wind up at the outskirts or stumble upon fresh water and, hopefully, food.

You decide in that moment to simply pick a space between two of the largest trees in the forest. There, even in the chances of someone passing through during the night, you would have to be in a very specific angle in the light to be able to be seen. You burrow yourself there like a baby bird in a twig nest, wrapping your backpack possessively around your middle and tightly drawing your jacket around yourself for warmth.

It is not an ideal refuge by any means, but it will have to do for now as a place to catch up on sleep.

Leaning up against the uncomfortably grainy bark of the tree, your eyelids slowly begin to flutter shut. Exhaustion weighs its heavy head down on your aching body, shoving itself deep into every crevice of your bones. Today could be the last day you will ever live and you would not even know it. Yesterday was so _many_ people’s final day, and though they did know it, they surely did not anticipate it.

The weight of that knowledge leaves you wishing you had told Jungkook so many more things than you did. You hope, someday, that he might be able to hear them.

But for now, all you have to worry about is sleeping enough to have the strength to fight for another day. You snuggle up as best as one can to the tree you will call home for the night, tucking your knees up into your chest. Comfortable silence settles across the expanse of the mystifying forest. All is at peace.

Then a rustle comes from up above, and someone drops right out of the tree overhead, landing a meager few feet in front of you with a knife pointed right at your throat.

“It’s nice to see you again, Four.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm..........so sorry for that ending i literally hate myself as much as you do right now
> 
> yell at me @guksheart on tumblr or @gukshoneybee on twitter


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